On the Four Celestials
by eighteenlandry
Summary: Poems for four of the seven FFX playable characters. (Water and winter; fire and summer; air and spring; earth and autumn.) Spoilers.
1. The Conflicted

_the first_; the moon;

water and winter;

the conflicted;

born to defeat and death,

born with chains and regrets and only a bleached-bone circular path to tread

* * *

She knew a granite face will hold no soul,  
she would be lost once carved in empty stone,  
yet she must walk, and play her honoured role,  
and make a better world than ash and bone.  
They thought she had a choice, they did not see  
there always was but one- she might keep dreams,  
the boy was life and laughter, but his bright plea  
still fell on hearts too deadened for more screams.  
She felt the statues' proud and lonely call,  
she felt the ever-closer tread of death,  
yet the world seemed deaf and blind, and she too small  
to impress on them her doom, her failing breath.  
Her path sundered, they fixed their winged white shroud  
upon her arms- _but finally she knows,  
__she sees their secret hearts_- and she had bowed  
her whole life to their lies, and so she chose:  
she knows now love and sorrow; she must try  
to conquer those, rather than blindly die.


	2. The Cynic

_the second_; goddess of beauty;

fire and summer;

the cynic;

too sad,

too tired,

to watch the world without bitterness

* * *

there can never be another his like  
the cold shadows of sorrow reach ever further  
her mind sleeps and decays in winter and rain  
she is not what she imagined she would be-

the cold shadows of sorrow reach ever further,  
her pity is withered and buried away  
she is not what she imagined she would be  
the eyes in the mirror are a stranger's-

her pity is withered and buried away  
but his preposterous hope is still touching  
the eyes in the mirror are a stranger's  
she knows he is still a good man-

his preposterous hope is still touching  
her mind sleeps and decays in winter and rain  
but she knows he is still a good man,  
there will not be another his like.


	3. The Optimist

A/N: I'm not a good enough poet to try and give Tidus' or Auron's poems any proper form (I wanted a villanelle, but neither of the ideas I had fit it), so they're both sort of drabbles. Sorry.

* * *

_the third_; the sun;

air and spring;

the optimist;

dream made so nearly real,

dream made brighter than those who truly existed

* * *

in the night  
in the dark  
in the quiet  
there are cold stares  
there are red suns  
there are no lights  
the world sleeps and he does not,  
his heart is with a city where the  
lights are shut off as the sun rises  
his heart is with a world untainted by fear  
his heart is with crowds and electricity

he walks and walks and the new world is no longer a dream  
he walks and walks and the world he left is tinted bright in regretful memory  
he is a hopeful man but hope is cold in his weary heart  
he is his own but he has trailed his father all his life  
he is a man more real than those  
poor souls of limp and lifeless cheer,  
he is not real enough to follow the others  
to a world where hopeless dreams have given way  
he must follow  
he must continue  
he must comfort

he must laugh because they were cold and he gave them life

she loves him and her aching arms slip through him


	4. The Realist

A/N: Done! I've rushed this one though, and it shows, and I'm quite attached to Auron, so I may come back to it.

* * *

_the fourth_; god of war;

earth and autumn;

the realist;

bereft of life,

an empty vessel,

waiting

* * *

he slides through cold and shifting air  
through newborn land and useless time  
he flies as light-  
and will-  
he glides  
across the boundaries of dream  
death is not kind-  
to speech or-  
thought-  
he endures but he cannot rule his mind

he tastes ash on his lips, he walks,  
he is no more in flesh than those  
statues of stars-  
who hoped-  
in vain  
his head and mind are rinsed by blood  
of all but drive-  
and endless-  
grief-  
he knows that laughter is a joy he will not taste again

he watches them, the daughter and  
the son, they grow, they never learn  
to live beyond-  
their sires-  
their markers  
he looks in mirrors and sees  
an eye no spell-  
or tonic will-  
mend-  
yet even with the Farplane's call he slips so simply

to the dead ten years are not so long  
as one would think, he knows that now  
the time to feel-  
to wait-  
is dying  
he looks in a too-old sword at  
a long-dead face-  
he thinks, he-  
calls-

Jecht-

it is his story  
he must  
live it a  
while yet,  
not yet,  
not yet-

once it is time I will carry him.


End file.
